A Sua Excellenza, il Duca di Balzano,
Palazzo Balzano, Naples, August—, 18—.
Dear Friend,—Pardon my prolonged silence, and apparent neglect. I have been ill—dangerously ill—for many weeks. Before that, I had come to no decision on the subject of your last letter. I cannot be a Catholic; but, if you can procure a dispense from the Pope, I will now be your wife. Can you forgive my caprice! At last, I understand how cruelly you must have suffered through me. Henceforth, it will be the sole aim of my life to compensate for past folly, by future devotion to your happiness. Write soon, and say when we may expect you here. Ella you will find grown out of all knowledge. You were ever a favorite with her. I cannot write more. I am still very weak—but, as ever,
Your affectionate friend,
Evelyn.
The letter was just concluded, when a gentle tap at the door caused the writer’s heart to give one bound, and then almost to cease beating. Evelyn withdrew the bolt—for she must speak with Ella. The young girl threw herself on her mother’s neck; but that mother’s kiss was cold, for the first time—and, as she felt the soft contact of her child’s pure lips, almost a shudder passed through her frame. Ah! wherefore did the shadow of that man come between those two! And Ella knelt at her mother’s feet, an unconscious rival; and as the latter, faint and sick at heart, leaned back in her fauteuil, she held the poor burning hand in her cool fresh palm, and poured out before her mother all the thoughts and feelings of her innocent, loving heart. She told how D’Arcy loved her, how kind he was, how clever—far too wise and clever for her, how could he think of such a child? True, Lilian had told him, or it could never have been; but her dear mother must teach her to become wise, worthy of him, that he may not think her foolish—“But oh! my own, own mama, I never, never will marry and leave you all alone. I told Mr. D’Arcy so. Never till you are a duchess, you know,” kissing her hand, “for though I like him very much, I never shall love him like my own sweet mother; how could I!”
Alas! poor Evelyn; bitterly did thy heart reproach thee that thou couldst not feel as the tender maiden at thy feet—that thy now guilty love still glowed in thy tortured heart, as in a furnace, to the exclusion of each gentle and more holy sentiment. Unhappy mother! she could scarce support the presence of her child now.
“Dear girl,” she said, with an effort, “be happy. I have written to accept M. di Balzano.”—Ella made a movement of delight. “Bless you, darling, now leave me. Take that letter and see that it is sent. I would be alone, my head aches terribly.” A true woman’s excuse, but in our heroine’s case not a fictitious one.
Once more left to her own sad thoughts, Evelyn endeavored to realize her painful position. It was necessary to meet D’Arcy; to show him that she consented, nay, that she was even happy, in the idea of his union with another, and that other her own daughter. “Alas!” she repeated to herself,
“To love thee dumbly, nor by look or word